To M.LETTER III
Oh M.,
crazed heart, won’t you
be a fairy
upon my brow?
If I close my eyes,
would your L-carvone convince me of the sky after it had cried?
And I sit, waiting for the breath of night,
to bereave me,
to enlighten you.
You...
might be a glistening
hurting grazing in my lungs
conjuring the passing of night,
how the golden dew still pours
pooling as I stare down and into
mosaic water forecasting of —
you...
might be a feather upon the heart
of the creature I hold dearest, whose
snow-flurried snoozes cradle me when
the feather blanket weighs and weighs.
P. S. I stayed with you, until
prickly seeds flew away in arms of armor,
until I saw that last ascension,
until you started burning
so much like the mirrors beneath my roots.